


Real as Life

by liebes



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bluesey - Freeform, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Post-The Raven King, Pre-Epilogue, richard gansey needs a hug, there's no way all these kids don't have ptsd by now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liebes/pseuds/liebes
Summary: Blue knows calling Gansey would be the sensible thing to do, but she isn’t feeling very sensible. She doesn’t think she can hear his voice without hearing those final words before he died his second death. She doesn’t think she can see him without the juxtaposition of his lifeless body falling to the ground on the side of the road.Gansey's can't sleep. It is the second night since his death. It is also the second night in a row that Blue hasn’t called him.Or, Blue and Gansey both try to cope in the aftermath of Gansey's (second) death on the ley line.
Relationships: Richard Gansey III & Adam Parrish, Richard Gansey III/Blue Sargent, Ronan Lynch & Blue Sargent
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	Real as Life

**Author's Note:**

> I desperately wanted there to be a fic like this. I couldn't find a fic like this. So I wrote one :)

“It will be okay. I’m ready. Blue, kiss me.” She looks up at Gansey, his jaw set, his eyes pleading and scared and resolute. In his – _Henry’s –_ rain-splattered Aglionby sweater, he looks both boyish and kingly. She’s seen this so many times – on the corpse road, in the vision tree, in her dreams – that it seems like it’s happened before, like it will happen again, like it’s always happening. Blue kisses him, he falls, and she screams.

—

Blue’s eyes snap open, and she looks around wildly as she sits up. Gansey is lying next to her, forehead creased in concern as he looks up at her.

“It’s okay, Jane,” he whispers, “I’m here. It’s over now.” Blue nods. Her heart is pounding, racing, but when Gansey sits up and takes her hand in his, it starts to slow.

“Look around,” he whispers, “we’re safe.”

Tearing her gaze away from him, she does as he says. They’re in Cabeswater. Wind rustles the leaves on the trees as they whisper familiarly. Blue flowers fall gently from the sky, coming to rest in a perfect circle around the two of them. Blue lets out a breath, slow and long. They’re in Cabeswater. They’re safe. It will be okay. Everything is as it should be.

Except, Blue suddenly realizes suddenly, it’s not. This is wrong. Cabeswater is gone, sacrificed to bring the boy next to her back to life.

_“Scio ubi ego somnia,”_ the trees whisper.

“It’s okay, Jane,” Gansey repeats. “We’re safe now.” She turns back to look at him. Black ooze drips from his eyes like tears as he meets her gaze. The flowers around them are withering, turning black before her eyes. The trees are melting like candles into the forest floor. Cabeswater is being unmade. _Gansey_ is being unmade.

“It’s okay, Jane,” Gansey repeats once more, but his teeth are crumbling into more of the black sludge. “It’s over, now.”

Blue gasps, a cry caught in her chest, as Gansey falls back to the ground before her.

—

Blue wakes up. She doesn’t open her eyes, allowing her other senses to ground her as she forces herself to breathe slowly. She’s at Fox Way, in her room, and this is real. _This is real_. It smells like home, like the memory of burnt sage and baking pies. She’s in her bed, cotton sheets soft from numerous washes. The patchwork quilt Persephone made her years ago over her, heavy and comforting.

When Blue finally opens her eyes, Maura is standing in the doorway, frowning.

“Mom?” Blue asks, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She’s not surprised to find her cheeks wet from tears. “What are you doing here?”

“Bad dream?” Maura responds, not quite an answer, but telling enough.

“How’d you know?”

“Psychic, remember?” Maura answers, crossing the room to sit beside Blue on her bed. “Also, you screamed. Twice.”

“Oh,” Blue says. She allows herself to rest her head on Maura’s shoulder. _This is real_ , she reminds herself. “It’s just the same one. Or two, I suppose.” Maura hmmms in response, and the two of them sit there, not speaking.

“Is he okay?” Blue asks after a few minutes. “Can you tell if he’s okay?”

“Do you want to call him?” Maura responds, again with a question. “I’ll even bring you the phone.”

“No,” Blue shakes her head fervently. “No, I can’t… I… I just need to know if he’s okay.”

“He’s okay,” Maura confirms. “Would you like a bit of advice? The mom kind, not the psychic kind.”

“Not really,” Blue says, honestly. She’s pretty sure she knows what her mom is going to say. And she doesn’t want to hear it.

“You should talk to him,” she says, ignoring Blue’s rejection. “See for yourself that he’s okay. That he’s alive, that he’s real too.”

Blue just shrugs in response. She knows she _should_ call him or better yet, go to Monmouth. That would be the sensible thing to do. But Blue isn’t feeling very sensible. She doesn’t think she can hear his voice without hearing those final words before he died his second death. She doesn’t think she can see him without the juxtaposition of his lifeless body falling to the ground on the side of the road. She doesn’t want to test it, not yet. Not when it’s all so fresh in her mind and body.

Maura doesn’t push the issue. She simply puts her arms around Blue, pulling her into a tight hug. Blue lets herself be comforted. Slowly, she finds her eyes growing heavy as she leans against her mother’s shoulder, and the world around her disappears into sleep. This time, she doesn’t dream.

***

Gansey can’t sleep.

This, in and of itself, is not new. He’s no stranger to insomnia, used to his mind racing towards worry, a million thoughts per minute, or running through every fact he’s ever uncovered about Glendower. He's used to being kept awake by his body’s anticipation of nightmares about bees and dying and being left behind. How many sleepless hours has he spent over the past few years, building his miniature Henrietta and yearning for exhaustion to overpower his anxiety and obsession and anticipation? Gansey is used to not being able to sleep.

This insomnia is different; it’s an intentional and determined fight against all-encompassing fatigue. Gansey’s sure that he could sleep for days if he allowed himself. But he’s afraid. Not of nightmares – he knows that he’s too exhausted to dream. Gansey’s afraid that this time he will close his eyes and he won’t wake up again. He’d already cheated death once on the ley line. To cheat it again, when he’s finally found a life he truly wants to live, seems too good to be true.

And so, Gansey finds himself on the floor of Monmouth at 3:15 AM, pouring over his years of notes on ley lines, on Cabeswater, on Glendower, trying to wrap his mind around everything that had happened in the past two days. Today had been spent interrogating Adam and Ronan about exactly what happened during the seemingly endless minute he was dead. Ronan had simply glared at him as he threw himself down onto the couch saying, “The fuck more do you want to know? The maggot kissed you, you died, and Parrish did some magic shit and brought you the fuck back.” Adam’s versions of events had been markedly more detailed about what had happened, but not even Adam seemed able to explain _how_ it happened. And Gansey needs to understand _how_ it is that he’s alive. Because then maybe – _maybe_ – he’ll be able to close his eyes to sleep and trust that he’ll wake up.

_Perhaps life given by a magical forest isn’t so different than life granted by a legendary king and his magicians,_ he thinks. Resting his head in his hands, Gansey allows himself a minute to indulge in the ever-present self-deprecative thoughts. _I took the life from Cabeswater, just as I took the life that belonged to Noah seven years previously. A magical forest for a 17-year-old insomniac, what a worthy trade._

Gansey sighs and closes his notebook. His friends must have thought he was worth it, he reminds himself. His court of equals, his brothers and his fated true love. They had brought him back because they wanted to. Because they wanted _him._

As he reaches for another notebook, Gansey glances towards his phone. The screen is dark, as it has been all evening. This is the second night in a row that Blue hasn’t called him. The fact that it’s also the second night since his death is not lost on him. He knows it isn’t a coincidence. What the significance is, however, is lost on him.

God, he’s tired. So tired that he almost gives in to the urge to call 300 Fox Way, despite the late hour. He wants to talk to Blue, to allow the Henrietta lilt of her voice drown out his fears and questions. But he’s not sure where they stand, whether their unspoken agreement that she calls him still holds. She’d clung to him the entire ride back to Fox Way. She’d leaned on his shoulder as he called his parents to tell them that he was terribly sorry but he’d gotten stuck in a minor caving accident, that yes he was physically okay and no he didn’t need to see a doctor, and yes he knew how this would look for the campaign and of course he would do all he could to make it right and it would never happen again. She’d gripped his hand as the doctor, once again, stitched up her eye and implored her to be more careful. She’d said goodnight and held his gaze as Ronan put the BMW into gear and sped away from Fox Way towards Monmouth Manufacturing. And then, she hadn’t called. And Gansey hadn’t slept.

“The fuck are you doing awake?” Gansey starts as Ronan’s voice echoes through the warehouse. He’s standing in the doorway to his room, Chainsaw on his shoulder, a silhouette of sharp edges and anger.

“Putting together my notes, sorting through my research,” Gansey replies, a halfhearted attempt at pleasant civility.

“You fucking died less than two days ago, shithead. You should be asleep. You look like shit.”

Gansey considers this. It’s not that Ronan’s _wrong_ so much as that Ronan is being a hypocrite. The bruises around his neck are a vibrant purple against his pale skin and his eyes have a haunted look about them that Gansey hasn’t seen in almost a year. It’s disconcerting, and a new wave of worry washes over him that Ronan losing his mother and Cabeswater and nearly being unmade is all too much, that this time, he’ll lose Ronan for good.

“I can’t sleep,” Gansey admits. Then, in almost a whisper, he adds, “Blue hasn’t called.”

Ronan nods in understanding. In spite of himself, Gansey finds a comforting familiarity in their shared wakefulness, one that he has sorely missed since Ronan started spending more nights at The Barns or St Agnes. He needs this, to not be alone with his thoughts, to be reminded that this is real, that he is real. If he can’t talk to Blue, being awake with Ronan is a good second choice. 

“Let’s go for a drive,” Ronan says suddenly, crossing the living room and throwing on his jacket.

“What about Adam?” Gansey asks, looking back towards Ronan’s room. “If he wakes up, won’t he wonder where we are?”

“Nah, Parrish sleeps like the dead,” Ronan replies, a sharp smile cutting across his face. Gansey laughs despite himself and follows Ronan out the door.

They don’t return until the sun begins to rise

***

When Blue opens her eyes again there’s a weak light coming through her window from a grey sky, threatening rain. Her mother is lying next to her, warm and solid and very real.

“You know, it’s creepy waking up to someone staring at you,” Blue says with a yawn as she pushes herself up into a seated position.

“How’d you sleep?” her mom asks.

“No more dreams,” Blue answers.

“Special mom magic,” Maura replies, face deathly serious, “but that didn’t answer my question.”

“You’re a psychic, figure it out,” Blue grumbles. In truth, she’d slept fitfully all night. Her mother’s presence _had_ helped, but the anticipation of more nightmares had kept Blue from fully relaxing into sleep.

Maura opens her mouth, as if to shoot back a retort, when the phone rings and Orla’s voice cuts through the house.

“Blueeeeee, it’s for you! One of your _Raven boys.”_ Her voice is sing-songy and so full of sugary condescension that Blue wants to scream.

“Which one is it?” she shouts back, stumbling out of bed and shooting a sharp glare at her mother, who is smiling knowingly at her. There’s no response from Orla. Blue turns to her mother and raises a questioning eyebrow that clearly communicates, _Well?_

Maura’s widening grin clearly communicates, _I guess you’ll have to find out._

The unnecessary amount of force with which Blue opens, and then slams, the door to her room on her way out clearly communicates, _What use is it being psychic anyway if you won’t even help your only daughter?_ Her mother’s responding laugh follows Blue down the stairs.

When Blue gets to the phone/cat/sewing room, Orla is examining her nails – they are painted the same shocking coral as her lips – and holding the phone between her shoulder and ear.

“Well, here she is, then,” Orla croons as she notices Blue enter. “If you want a reading, be sure to call back. I’ll make time for you.” She smiles broadly as she hands the phone over, seemingly unaffected by Blue’s scowl.

Blue snatches the phone from her cousin and puts it to her ear. She’s not sure who to expect on the other end. She’s not sure which of the boys would be the worst. She _is_ sure that whoever it is had to deal with more than his fair share of Orla in just the few moments it took Blue to reach the room.

“Hello?” she asks, steeling herself.

“Maggot,” the voice comes through, cutting and angry. Blue starts. She realizes very quickly that she _had_ been sure it _wouldn’t_ be _this_ Raven boy, that he was _definitely_ the worst of the boys to have on the phone, and that she regrets not taking longer coming down the stairs to allow Orla more time.

“Ronan? I was unaware that you knew how to use a phone.” Blue knows it’s a weak cut, but she’s too taken aback to really care.

“Ha ha,” Ronan says dryly, “I’m picking you up in five minutes.”

“You’re _what?_ ” Blue asks. “Nice of you to make a courtesy call. I just woke up.”

“Four minutes, Maggot.” The line goes dead.

Blue sets the phone back in its cradle, wondering what could be so important to cause Ronan to willingly use his phone. _Gansey_ , she thinks suddenly, and panic seizes her heart. _Something has happened to Gansey_. But, no, surely he would have said something if Gansey had… if Gansey wasn’t… wouldn’t he?

“Asshole!” Blue exclaims, and she hurries back up the stairs to throw together some semblance of clothes.

Three minutes later, as Blue shrugs into an oversized cardigan, she hears Ronan pull up. It’s not nearly as characteristic as the roar of The Pig, but the engine of the BMW hums in a way that distinctly does _not_ belong in this neighborhood. Blue instinctually bristles with the thought _Raven boys and their rich-boy cars_. But almost before it registers, it’s overshadowed by a warmth she’s come to associate with family, with _her_ Raven boys, a warmth that pierces the cold fear of nightmares and demons. Smiling to herself, Blue spends the next two minutes painstakingly arranging clips in her hair and straightening the fishnets she has on over her leggings. If Ronan is going to be unexpected _and_ early, she is going to make him wait.

“Took you long enough,” Ronan accuses as Blue opens the door to the BMW and slips into the passenger seat.

“Didn’t have much notice,” she retorts, pointedly fastening her seatbelt. Ronan is not, of course, wearing his. “What if I’d been in the middle of something?”

“The fuck would you be in the middle of?”

“I don’t know. Stuff. _Sleeping_.”

“Whatever,” he replies, but there’s no real bite to his voice. He puts the BMW into gear and pulls back into the street, accelerating to a speed that Blue knows is neither entirely legal nor what Ronan would likely be going were he alone.

“Where are you taking me?” Blue asks as Ronan pulls onto the highway in the opposite direction of Monmouth Manufacturing.

“On a drive,” is his answer. His face is set in an expression that is both sharper and less dangerous than usual. Blue can tell that she’s not getting any more out of him until he’s ready. And, knowing Ronan, they could be halfway to Seattle before _that_ happens.

As they hurtle towards the mountains, it occurs to Blue that not even a year ago she would have rather lost a limb than gotten into a car with an Aglionby boy, even one as truant and non-Aglionby-like as Ronan. Now, she cannot imagine that she ever settled for a life without this, without magic and adventures and the potential for so much more. Of a life without Ronan and Adam and Henry and Gansey.

Of a life without Gansey.

Blue freezes, a sudden panic squeezing the air out of her chest. Closing her eyes against the fear, all she can see is Gansey lying, lifeless, on the side of the road. _No,_ she thinks, _the memory is worse than the fear_. But Blue can’t open her eyes and shut out the scene within her. She tries to imagine the impenetrable glass ball around her, to visualize light piercing through the memories of the unmaking. But the memories are inside the protective barrier with Blue, they are a part of Blue, and she doesn’t know how to pull the battery from herself. The protective light is blinding, and Blue squeezes her eyes tight against it. _This is too much_.

“Sargent.” Ronan’s voice cuts through her thoughts, softer around the edges than she would have imagined. “Sargent, open your fucking eyes and look at me.”

Blue does as he asks, rubbing her gloved hands across her face to wipe away tears she’s too shaken to feel embarrassed about. The engine of the BMW is silent--she hadn’t noticed them pull over—and the only sound is the rustling of Chainsaw digging through the garbage in the back seat. Ronan’s looking at her, his face in an expression she’s only seen a few times before, an expression usually reserved for Adam. It’s something approaching tenderness.

“You need to fucking call him. Or better yet, come see him. I don’t think he’s slept since… It’s like he’s convinced he won’t wake up if he goes to sleep or some shit.”

“You’re one to talk,” Blue counters, “When was the last time _you_ slept?”

“Fuck off, this is about Gansey.” She glares at him, and he stares back. His blue eyes are ice -- cold and hard and threatening to melt at any sign of warmth. Hers are red and on fire. It’s an impasse that could’ve lasted mere seconds or full hours.

“I can’t,” Blue whispers finally, looking away. “There’s too much. How can I see him without seeing everything? How can I look at him without remembering that it was _me_ that killed him?”

“You can’t,” Ronan answers, voice hard again. He turns back to the wheel and starts the engine. “You’re going to keep seeing it and keep remembering it until it’s a goddamn permanent fixture in the back of your mind. But then sometimes it’s just in the background and you can focus on the other shit until it comes back. But you also get to see Gansey being _alive_ , being real and awake and alive. And that should fucking be enough.”

Blue considers his words. Ronan, more than anyone would understand, would know. If she can’t un-see that scene at the side of the road, she can at least see Gansey whole and safe and full of life as well. She nods, and Ronan puts the car into gear.

“Where are we going now?” Blue asks as the BMW pulls back out onto the road.

“Monmouth,” he replies, eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. “Where the fuck else would we go?”

***

Gansey doesn’t know how much longer he will be able to stay awake. He also doesn’t know how on earth he will ever sleep. It’s a frustrating twilight zone of consciousness and desire, a tug-of-war between the physical need for sleep and the emotional need to stay awake at all costs. And he doesn’t know how much longer he can hold on. It would be, Gansey muses, an ironic twist of fate if he were to die from lack of sleep. _How long_ can _someone go without sleep?_ Wearily, he pulls out his phone to look up the answer. Something—anything—to delay the inevitable.

The top result to his search query is unsatisfying: “…however, the amount of time that a person can survive without sleep remains unclear…” Gansey allows himself a groan of frustration as he lets his head fall back against the couch leg. He closes his eyes, indulges for the briefest of moment in the comforting darkness. And then, it’s Glendower dispersing into dust. It’s flowers and scraps of paper littering the air. It’s Blue’s face leaning up towards his, coming closer and closer. It’s nothing, a vast abyss of emptiness. It’s death.

Gansey starts, eyes snapping open and lungs gasping for air. Was that nothingness real? Or was it a dream? He wishes he had Ronan’s ability to easily differentiate between dreams and reality. He knows he’s in Monmouth; the exposed beams and high ceiling, the sprawling cardboard Henrietta, the truly unnecessary, impulsively-purchased pool table, all familiar and undistorted by sleep and very much real. As his gaze wanders around the room, he notices Adam standing in the doorway to Ronan’s room. He’s leaning against the door jamb, dressed in his t-shirt from yesterday and a pair of Ronan’s sweatpants. In spite of everything, Gansey smiles; this change between Adam and Ronan is very real, too. He couldn’t have dreamt this in a million years, but now it seems as inevitable and timeless as his relationship with Blue.

“Did Lynch leave?” Adam asks, his voice carefully casual.

“Yeah, he took off a bit ago,” Gansey answers, forcing a neutral tone. “I’m not sure where he went; he didn’t say.”

“He left the Orphan Girl,” Adam says, “She’s asleep in a pile of dirty clothes.”

“He took Chainsaw,” Gansey replies. Both statements are unnecessary. Gansey had seen Ronan leave without the curious child-like dream thing, and Adam surely had noticed the absence of the raven. Still, Gansey appreciates the distraction. Anything to prevent him from falling into that nothingness again.

Adam nods as though something important has been settled. He crosses the room to bump knuckles with Gansey before sitting beside him on the floor in front of the sofa. This, too, is an unnecessary yet comforting gesture.

“Have you seen Noah?” Gansey finds himself asking. He is surprised it’s taken him this long to remember that he hasn’t seen his friend since the night they found Glendower’s remains.

“Noah?” Adam repeats. His face falls into a faraway expression, like he’s trying to recall a fact just outside his reach. Time passes, and then with a nod of recognition and understanding, he says, “I think he’s gone. I think, when Cabeswater…he was tied to the forest, to the ley line. With Cabeswater gone, I don’t think there was enough left of him to stay.”

“So,” Gansey muses, “I got my life in exchange for Noah’s. Again.” He knows it’s not the same as seven years ago; he knows that Noah had been decaying, not living. And, yet, it doesn’t seem fair that he keeps getting more chances. Die, live, and die again, only to find himself inexplicably alive. Sacrificing himself was supposed to be the greatness he was destined for. But, was it truly greatness if he was always going to come back? _Is fate done with me?_ _Or is there something more?_

_Don’t throw it away._

“What was that?” Adam’s voice cuts into Gansey’s thoughts. Gansey looks up; there’s an intensity to Adam’s expression that Gansey can’t quite place. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken the last bit out loud.

“Right before I died,” Gansey answers, raising his voice to allow Adam to hear. “Noah whispered it to me. He said goodbye, and then he said ‘Don’t throw it away.’” He forces his voice into a pleasant lilt, hoping that a lighter mood will follow. “That’s quite a lot of pressure to put on someone as prone to fallibility as I, as aimless and purposeless as I am without Glendower.”

“Oh, don’t be self-pitying,” Adam interrupts him. There’s still that edge to his voice. Clearly Gansey hadn’t fooled Adam any more than he’d fooled himself.

“I don’t mean to be,” Gansey replies, His voice still light and earnest. It’s not quite a lie. He doesn’t mean to be self-pitying, but the feeling wells within him despite his best efforts. He’s suddenly reminded of the last time, months ago, that he’d indulged in self-pity in the presence of others. How different things had been, then. Had he known, even then, that Blue’s kiss would be the thing to push him over the edge of death he’d been hurtling towards? “You know, Blue called me self-pitying once. Or, rather, she agreed with my assertion that I was being self-pitying. I’ve tried to refrain from it since.”

“She hasn’t called you, has she?” Adam’s question surprises Gansey. Did Adam know about Blue’s regular late-night calls? He’d thought that only Noah had known. Noah, who never told secrets that weren’t his to share. But how else would he know to ask?

“Did Ronan tell you?”

“No, but I’m not stupid, Gansey. She hasn’t been over, and you keep glancing at your phone to see if it’s lit up.”

“I know you’re not stupid,” Gansey says with a sigh. At one time, this could have been the start of a fight with Adam. If he were Ronan, he’d maybe lean into that familiarity. For the second time in the hour a pang of jealousy stabs at him. Gansey wishes he had that ability to push almost to the breaking point, just to distract himself from the worry, exhaustion, and fear. But he isn’t Ronan Lynch; he is Richard Campbell Gansey III, and despite himself he cannot escape the generations of southern courtesy and schooled composition bred into him.

Instead, Gansey reflects on Adam’s observation. He hadn’t realized that he’d been checking his phone throughout the whole conversation. It’d become such a habit over the past few days, more so than ever before, waiting and hoping for Blue to signal that she was okay, that they were okay. Just thinking about the possibility that they aren’t causes panic to bubble up in him. He takes a deep breath, and then another. Gansey knows that if he lets the panic take hold, every thought and feeling from the past two days will overwhelm him. With another deep breath, he forces his face into an expression of calm confidence.

“I’m sorry, Adam. I know you’re not stupid,” he repeats again, no sigh this time. “I suppose I didn’t realize how obvious it was. I’m sure that she will call, though, when she gets a chance.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Adam says. “You don’t need to pretend you’re not exhausted or afraid or anything other than perfectly fine. Not with us, at least.”

Gansey considers this. _They followed me to the mansion and into the cave_. _They sacrificed Cabeswater for me. They didn’t walk away from me._ How strange it feels to allow himself to be truly seen. It’s new and almost unsettling, but even more, it’s warmth and comfort and a sense of home.

“I can’t think what I’ve done to anger her. Except the obvious.” Gansey admits. He laughs sadly, a single exhale of feigned humor. “I supposed I’d be rather upset with her if she died… but she didn’t seem angry at first.”

Adam doesn’t reply at first. Initially, Gansey worries that it’s because Adam _knows_ that Blue is angry and doesn’t know how to tell him. But, no, Adam’s expression is contemplative. Gansey can almost see him thinking, see him putting together the different pieces of the puzzle that is Blue-and-Gansey to uncover an unrealized truth.

“I don’t think she’s mad at you,” Adam says finally. His tone is cautious and intentional, as though he’s choosing each word with the utmost care. “I think that she might be afraid. Afraid to see you.”

“Pardon?”

“Not _of_ you, but of what seeing you might make her feel. She killed you—”

“She did not kill me—” Gansey interrupts, but Adam keeps talking as if he hadn’t.

“She kissed you, and you died. She kissed you knowing that, if she did, you would die. Ergo, guilt. I’m not saying that she _should_ feel guilty…just that, knowing you’ve hurt someone you love, even if you have to, even if you couldn’t help it…it can feel impossible.”

Gansey blinks. He hadn’t thought of this possibility. Though, now that Adam has said it, it makes sense. And, of course Adam would know. Gansey remembers how Adam was unable to look at Ronan with anything other than shame and fear that first night. That shame, Gansey realizes, still fills Adam, lurking beneath the surface. He wonders how long it will take to truly fade.

“What do I do?” he whispers, because he needs to know.   
  


“I don’t know,” Adam whispers back, because he doesn’t.

Gansey frowns. He knows that Blue isn’t Adam. She doesn’t have the same baggage as Adam; she didn’t grow up with shame as a constant companion. But because he hasn’t seen her ashamed, he isn’t sure he understands it. And if he doesn’t understand it, how can he expect himself to fix it?

“Well,” Ronan’s voice echoes through Monmouth. “You sure as hell don’t avoid talking about it.”

***

“Well _that’s_ just hypocritical,” Blue snorts. She looks up at Ronan, narrowing her eyes. She has been glaring at him almost constantly for the past thirty minutes, since he informed her of their destination. Her face is starting to get sore from the fixed expression, but Blue refuses to let him win. If he’s going to drag her against her will to Monmouth, he deserves more than a scathing expression.

He smiles wickedly at her in response as he crosses the room to throw himself onto the sofa behind Adam. Blue’s gaze follows him through squinted eyes, deftly avoiding the third boy on the floor beside Adam.

“Where have you been?” Adam asks, resting his head against Ronan’s knee as he turns his head to look up at them.

“Getting the Maggot.” Ronan makes a sweeping gesture towards Blue. Her scowl deepens, and she mouths _asshole._

“Took you long enough,” Adam retorts. His eyebrows are slightly raised, questioning. Ronan shrugs. It’s a shrug, Blue thinks, that means Ronan will tell Adam about it later. A wave of relief and of gratitude towards the sharp-edged and dangerous boy washes over her, and she lets her face soften. Ronan isn’t going to tell Gansey about their conversation. As much as she fears facing Gansey, of reliving the terror and pain of his death, she finds that she’d rather do it herself. Ronan might be forcing the conversation, but he’s letting her have it in her own way. She assumes that Ronan will tell _Adam_ about their conversation, and she doesn’t much mind. What use are secrets amongst friends who know – and have seen—each other’s worst fears? Besides, Adam is too observant to have not realized _something_ was off.

“Hey, Blue,” Adam says quietly, reaching out a fist to bump knuckles with her. His wrists are still raw from where they tied them together, and there’s faint bruising. Despite her reluctance to get closer to Gansey – it will be even harder to avoid looking at him if she’s right next to him—Blue walks across the room to return Adam’s first bump. There’s something grounding in the gesture, a reminder that she belongs with these boys, that she is one of them.

“Hey, Adam,” Blue replies softly, letting her face relax fully into a slight smile.

Still avoiding Gansey, Blue looks around the warehouse apartment. The three days since she’s been here have felt like both no time at all and forever: an instantaneous eternity. In the grey November light, the lofty museum-ness of Monmouth is absent. There are no rays of sunshine to capture the floating dust and frame the piles of well-worn books. It’s just the messy apartment of two teenage boys. She adores it. 

“So,” Ronan starts. “Like I said, you don’t solve your problems by fucking avoiding them. Maggot. _Dick_.”

“And like _I_ said,” Blue shoots back, “You’re a hypocrite.”

“So what if I am? Doesn’t fucking change anything.” Ronan stands abruptly. Reaching out a hand to pull Adam up he says, “C’mon Parrish. We’re going to the Barns.” He turns to his bedroom. “Orphan Girl, c’mon, we’re leaving. I know you’re not actually asleep.” There’s a scuttling noise, and then the half-girl from Ronan’s dreams appears in the doorway. She’s holding a damp strap that Blue thinks may have, at one point, been a belt, and eyes Ronan reproachfully, as if daring him to make her put it down. He sighs. “I guess you can bring that, too. Let’s go.”

As Ronan slams the door behind the three of them, Blue chances the briefest of glances at Gansey. He’s not looking at her but down at his hands, folded in his lap. She can tell that he’s exhausted; his slumped shoulders have a heaviness about them that suggests defeat or grief or some combination of the two. Something about it reminds her too strongly of his spirit in the graveyard, and she has to look away. _He’s alive,_ she tells herself, _He’s alive and this is real. The death that was foretold on Saint Mark’s Eve already happened, and unhappened. He’s alive, and this is real._

The silence echoes throughout the space, bouncing off the exposed beams and dirty windows. It’s suffocating; it’s overpowering; it’s so, so wrong. Even though Blue knows she’s not alone, the space has never felt so empty. Without the constant movement of Ronan and the stillness of Adam, the rustling of Chainsaw, and the frenetic pursuit of Glendower, it’s as if the essence of Monmouth has been unmade. Is this what it will become when Ronan leaves for the Barns? When Gansey goes off to pursue a future he’d never expected to have? Just walls and dust and the memory of something more? Blue wanders over to the desk and begins to pick up the assorted artifacts that Gansey’s left lying there, just to put them down again, just for something to do.

“Are you going to look at me?” Gansey’s voice is just a whisper, but it breaks through the silence like thunder.

“I don’t know,” Blue replies, keeping her eyes carefully trained on the objects in front of her.

“Are you cross with me, Blue?” His tone is unsure, tentative in a way that Blue has only heard a few times. The question pains her. The uncertainty pains her more. But the use of her given name shocks her, transports her back to the unmaking. _It will be okay. I’m ready. Blue, kiss me._

“No,” she answers. It’s all she can manage to get out before her voice threatens to crack and her eyes start to burn. She’s in two places at once, here in Monmouth and on the side of the road. Gansey is sitting across the room from her amidst his cardboard Henrietta, and he’s lying on the ground motionless.

“Then tell me what’s going on, Blue. I’m trying to understand, but I’m at a loss.”

The use of her name for the second time guts her, and against her better judgement, she rounds on him, raising her voice towards a shout to prevent it from cracking further, to remind herself that she’s here in Monmouth. “Stop calling me that! Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Calling you what?” The doubt in his voice is still there, but it’s shifted slightly, from doubt to confusion.

“Blue,” she answers. His eyes focus on hers, holding her gaze. And now that she’s finally looking at him, she finds herself unable to look away. “You never call me Blue.”

“I wasn’t sure…I thought maybe…you hadn’t called, and I wondered if, perhaps, your feelings had changed.” He stands, makes to move towards, her, and stops himself. Then, forcibly formal, “I didn’t want to presume that I still had any right to call you Jane.”

“Well that’s stupid of you.” The burning pressure behind her eyes erupts, tears escaping and running down her cheeks. “I didn’t want to be _Jane_ last spring, and that didn’t stop you then.”

“Alas, this is true.” He laughs, a self-deprecating sound that it so very _Gansey_ that it grounds Blue in the present. He crosses the room and reaches up to wipe a tear from her cheek. She lets him, leaning into his touch, breathing in the mint and wheatgrass. Her tears are coming faster, now, as he whispers, less uncertain than before, “I’d hoped that I’d matured some since then.”

“Well, I’ve grown accustomed to it,” she chokes out, “So you can go back to calling me that, if you want.” She looks up at him. His face is blurry through her tears, but she can make out an unmasked expression of concern and what might be relief.

“Ah, Jane,” he whispers. Blue lets sobs overtake her, and she falls into his arms.

***

Gansey cannot help but feel relief as Blue falls into his arms. He’d been surprised when Ronan arrived with her in tow, and even more surprised when Ronan had dragged Adam and the Orphan Girl out of the warehouse, essentially forcing him and Blue to talk. Surprised, and grateful. Ronan had done what he, Gansey, had been too cowardly to.

Then, Blue had refused to look at him, and Gansey’s thoughts slipped easily into the pattern that had been plaguing him for days. What they had was contingent on him dying within the year, that when offered the opportunity for more, Blue would realize that she didn’t truly want to be burdened by an arrogant rich boy with baggage and no quest to make his life matter. What if she had brought him back, not out of a desire to have him in her world, but out of guilt for the consequences of her kiss? Despite everything that had happened, he’d been afraid that she’d walk away.

But now, in this moment, he understands that the fears that had plagued him were just shadows in the night. His worries quiet. For the second time that Gansey can remember, he feels grounded in his own life. This—the solid weight of Blue’s body against his, the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her muffled sobs—this, is real.

“Jane,” he repeats, holding her closer. And, because he needs to hear it and knows she needs to hear it too, he says, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her reply is muffled, and Gansey can’t make out her words.

“Pardon? With a lot less shirt in your mouth this time.” He’s rewarded with what might be a snort of laughter, though it’s hard to tell with her crying. Blue’s head turns so that her cheek is against his now-damp t-shirt.

“You can’t know that. Your fate’s no longer sealed.”

“True,” he concedes. “But I no longer feel as though I’m stumbling towards certain demise, and I plan to do everything I can to keep it that way.”

Blue looks up at him, eyes puffy and red from crying. Briefly, for as long as it takes him to force himself to inhale, he’s transported to the last time he held her in his arms on the side of the highway. And then, it passes, and once again he’s here in Monmouth. As he holds her gaze, moments slip into eons and back to moments.

“I’m afraid,” she whispers, finally, ducking her head to hide her face.

“I know,” he says, because he realizes that he does. He understands, now, what Adam had said earlier. She hasn’t been avoiding him due to some misstep on his part but because of the aftermath of her kiss. She’s terrified of reliving his death again. “Does it help that I am, too?”

“Not really.” But he notices her eyes are no longer full of tears, and the ghost of a smile flickers on her mouth. “I’d feel better if you were an arrogant Aglionby asshole I didn’t have to care about. Maybe if you put on a polo and your boat shoes I’d manage.”

“If it would keep you around, I could try,” he answers truthfully. He would do anything to keep them all, even if it killed him again to do so.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she answers, echoing his words from before. “You don’t need to be that version of yourself.”

Gansey lets out a sigh, slow and measured. In truth, he doesn’t think he knows how to be that version of himself anymore. And he knows that he couldn’t stand playing that role for very long. He’s exhausted from the years of hiding the noise inside him with easy smiles, of never letting himself be truly seen. Having experienced the comfort being known, losing that would be unbearable.

“I’m tired of pretending,” he admits. Those words stir something within him, something wild and uninhibited. Suddenly, nothing is real except for Blue. The only sound is of their breath. Everything else is silence.

“Maybe we don’t have to pretend.” Her words are barely audible, and Gansey thinks that if he wasn’t so entirely focused on her he would have missed them. “I think my mom would have reminded me if we had to pretend. I think we would know, somehow.”

“My fate is no longer sealed,” he whispers. “If you can be kissed, I would beg one off you.

Blue nods. She looks around, and Gansey does, too. The sun has begun to pierce the clouds, catching the floating dust and casting a warm light on the miniature Henrietta. Blue gestures vaguely, “Under all this?”

She’s looking at him again, her dark eyes blazing with the same intensity that Gansey feels within himself. And, as Gansey leans in to kiss her, she doesn’t shy away. And, as his lips brush hers, he doesn’t die.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic in literal years. I wanted this scene, and realised that I had to write it myself. So, of course I go from zero to 7000. Drop a line in the comments; it'd be super appreciated!


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